Zodiac v Election: A 2016 Campaign Drama
by jfyrdraaca
Summary: ATTN: now updating on ao3 only! 2016 presidential election news: Zodiac Killer on the loose! Misfortune follows Jeb Bush; Marco Rubio struggles with new emotions. Tho romance unfolds secretly and a serial killer is targeting candidates, the race must go on! ft Donald Trump, Bernie Sanders, Ted Cruz, Hillary Clinton, John Kasich, Chris Christie, etc. Will be updated with real news.
1. Junior Jeb

Ch1

Feb 26, 2016 – the day after the 10th republican debate

 _The giant turtle beckoned to him, claws outstretched welcomingly. "You belong here, with us," she seemed to say. "Join the turtle family. You will be loved."_

" _I can't," he replied. "I don't have a shell. I wouldn't fit in."_

" _But you do have a shell."_

 _He craned his neck to look behind, but found it was impossible. He looked down and saw a soft brown tummy and four sturdy little legs._

" _It's really true! I am a turtle after all! Finally, I can be accepted and loved! No more –"_

BANG BANG BANG. The dream faded away. BANG BANG BANG. "Wake up Jeb!" screeched his mother from outside his door. "You lousy good-for-nothing old man! Get up, Ben Carson's been murdered!"

"Mmmmph," said Jeb!. He didn't want to get up. It was so nice to be able to sleep in again, no longer campaigning from county to county. But Mother was calling. "All right, I'm up!" he yelled. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and stepped onto the hardwood floor, shivering from the cold. Reaching onto his bedside table, he tightly gripped his favorite toy turtle, whom he had nicknamed "Junior Jeb." Junior Jeb was good at being who he was destined to be. Junior Jeb was good at being a toy turtle. If only Jeb! himself was better at being a Bush.

Wait a second. Had his mother said Ben Carson was dead?

Jeb fumbled for his phone, and it fell off the table. He tried to catch it but hit his head on the edge – then tripped over his charger. Mildly cursing, he navigated to the news.

There was the headline – "Infamous Zodiac Killer Strikes Again: Ben Carson Dead." The Zodiac Killer? Wasn't that a… 1970s thing? He clicked on the article.

 _Ben Carson was found dead outside of a hotel this morning, 2/26/16, shot at least five times in the chest and head. An autopsy is currently underway, but it is estimated his death took place at around 3:30 this morning. A typed note was found on his person and is still in police custody but we have been informed that it claims this is the work of the so-called notorious "Zodiac Killer" who killed at least seven people in Northern California in the 1960s and 1970s. Whether or not this claim is true has yet to be verified…_

Jeb sat back down on the bed. How could this be? A fabled serial killer, back in action? Why had he killed Ben Carson, of all people?

Maybe Bernie would know.

With newfound initiative, Jeb got back up, changed from his turtle pajamas into a t-shirt and jeans (thank god for no more collared shirts), took a deep breath, and opened his door. No one in the hallway. Down the stairs. Through the kitchen to reach the mudroom. George Senior and Junior were both sitting at the kitchen table, reading two copies of the same newspaper. They didn't acknowledge him as he walked by, but he was used to being given no attention. And today that was a good thing.

There wasn't enough room in the garage for his car, so it was parked out front. As he walked around the house, he stared up at its big white walls. He looked forward to moving out and going back to Florida, but for the moment his mother wanted him to be here, in Texas. What a miserable state.

Getting into his car, he pulled out his phone and turned off his location. It wouldn't do for his mother to know where he was going.

After a couple tries getting his minivan to start, Jeb was on the road. His destination was 15 minutes away, at the third gas station on this road. When he got there, he parked and reached into the glove box for his bag of quarters. He dashed from the car to the telephone booth, hiding his face. It wouldn't do for people to recognize him here. He liked this particular phone booth because of its heavily frosted glass. He wouldn't usually be here, but the cheap flip phone he'd been using in the past had broken a few weeks ago, so he was reduced to using public amenities such as this until he could surreptitiously acquire a new one.

He dialed Bernie's number. He knew it by heart, of course. The phone rang for a while before it was picked up.

"Hello? Who is this?" Jeb let out a deep sigh of relief at the sound of the familiar gruff, accented voice. Maybe now he'd get some answers.

"It's me. It's Jeb," he said.

"Honn-ey!" Bernie hollered. "Its goohd to hea from yoo. What is goin on."

"Did you hear that Ben Carson died?"

"Yea! Everybody's sayin it's his fault! Because he said he wanted somebody to attack him at last night's debate."

"Oh. I- I didn't watch." Jeb had not found the capacity within himself to watch another shouting match between grumpy old men. He was just glad he wasn't part of the shenanigans anymore.

"Hah! Well! Nobody mentioned him so he didn't get to talk. So he said he wanted to be attacked. Be careful what ya wish for, huh?" He laughed. "Hey, baby, I need to talk to ya in person. Could you get to South Carolina by 2?"

"No, I don't think I can…"

"Then skype me later, huh? Look boo I gotta go make a speech or somethin, I don't know. And all these young people want pictures. Okay?"

"Oh, ok, I—" Bernie had hung up. "Love you…" he finished despondently.


	2. And the Most Emo Candidate Award Goes To

Ch2

Feb 26, 2016 – four days before Super Tuesday

 _Ping_. _Ping-ping. … Ping._ What was that? That wasn't the sound his alarm made. His alarm was, obviously "I'm Not Okay (I Promise)" by MCR. He didn't like the song, but it was practically the one part of his life under his own control, so maybe he went a little overboard. _Ping!_

Oh. Right. That was the sound emails made.

Marco reached over and grabbed his phone. Squinting at the brightness, he navigated to his email. His campaign inbox, republicanrubio , had 20 new messages. He looked at the titles: "CONDEMN Carson's Death!" "New talking point add today," "Urgent: evidence linking Zodiac Killer to Clintons." Confused, he opened the first, which was from, of course, Nikki Haley.

Nikki Haley. What an asshole. He couldn't stand her constant threats to his physical safety. And to think people saw them as the ideal ticket.

 _We need to condemn Carson's murder as strongly as possible! CONDEMN CONDEMN CONDEMN and DON'T STOP CONDEMNING. This should be EASY for you. Remember I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE. ;D Nikki_

Yikes! Was Ben Carson dead? How? What if it had been Marco who had been targeted? He dropped his phone on his face in distress. Ow. A little more awake now, he looked at his other emails. All from congresspeople and governors, all telling him how to respond to Carson's death. Their advice ranged from "avoid broaching subject more than once," to Nikki's "CONDEMN," to someone suggesting he "blame it on Trump."

Well, he was relying on all of these people's endorsements. He'd have to go with a compromise. Condemn Donald Trump strongly once? No, that didn't make sense. Marco let out a deep sigh and dropped his phone on the floor. He needed so badly to win some shit on "Super Tuesday." The establishment needed him to take down Trump and Cruz, but they were sending conflicting messages. And he needed to please all of them to get their support, and needed to continue succeeding to have a career. And if he didn't have a career his wife would finally be good on her word and leave him, not that he cared, but that would damage his image, and then he would have even less of a career, and then what? He'd just be regular little Marco. What if he had to go into – he grimaced – _local_ politics.

 _Ping!_ He was lagging so badly in the polls. He so badly wished he wasn't running for president. He just wanted to sit at home and not wear a goddamned collared shirt with rolled up sleeves and maybe drink some starbucks and go campaigning for Donald Trump. Now _that_ was a man who knew what he was doing. _Ping!_ But no, Marco had to be constantly pitted against the man who was the best for the job. And now the establishment wanted him to move away from his nice little memorized phrases, but he needed them, because if he made something up on the spot he might end up endorsing Trump!

He'd tried out the new tactic earlier that night, at the debate. It was both a relief to be allowed to get on Trump's level of mudslinging but also Actual Hell to distance himself in this way from a man he respected so much.

Not many people were privileged enough to stand that close to the man. They didn't realize how nice he smelled: like coffee, and money, and… between the intermittent pinging, he drifted back to sleep.

 _He was waving. A blurry crowd of supporters, cheering. Spinning, spinning… He heard laughter. Where was it coming from? It increased in volume as one member of the audience spun closer and closer. The gold hair, the orange skin: he was unmistakable. Still laughing, Donald floated onto the stage, wiggling his fingers mockingly. Well, probably mockingly._ Pop, pop, pop. _In a disturbing turn of events, Donald's fingers began turning into eclairs. As his eyes turned into mini cupcakes, he grabbed a microphone and began to sing. "You like D &D, Audrey Hepburn, Fangoria, Harry Houdini and croquet. You can't swim…"_

 _That_ was his alarm.


	3. A Bernie Breakup

Ch3

My greatest wish is that someday this will be studied by historians as a work of social commentary.

Feb 26, 2016 – about 12 hours after a morning phone call

Jeb! was in the basement of his county library, in the darkest corner of the biography section where no one (he hoped) ever ventured. Sitting on a stepstool, he got out his trusty macbook, grimacing at the campaign stickers on the back. He hadn't gotten around removing those yet. Navigating to skype, he noted that Bernie was indeed online.

He felt vaguely nervous. Bernie had sounded preoccupied earlier, and his "I need to talk to you" was foreboding. Hopefully, Bernie intended for this call to make up for his lack of engagement in their prior conversation.

 _Hey, are you there?_ he typed. Waiting for a response, he gazed at the books surrounding him. Clinton AND Bush autobiographies? He couldn't have chosen a worse shelf.

"Jeb!" Bernie was here. "It's yoo. I am glad yoo were able to come."

Jeb shrugged. "It's not like I have anything better to do now."

"What about governing Florida?" Bernie was trying to cheer him up. "They need yoo there, do they nawt?"

"I'm not governor of Florida anymore, Bernie. I stepped down in 2007, remember?" Jeb tried to smile. "But thanks."

"No problem. But anyway," Bernie assumed a solemn tone, his face turning graven. "I had to talk to yoo for a very specific reason."

Jeb waited expectantly.

"Jeb, we have got to break up. This relationship cannot go on."

"W—What?"

"Jeb, I am in love with somebody else."

"Who? Who is it?"

"The American people." Bernie paused, then closed skype.

Jeb stared at his computer screen in horror. Numb, he shut his laptop, stuffed it in his bag, rose, and walked out of the library.

He started his minivan and, staring straight ahead, started for home. He didn't notice when people honked at him, or when he ran a red light. He couldn't think straight and didn't want to. He drove right up to the front door, entered, closed the door, and sank to the floor. He sat there unthinkingly until his mother walked by, carrying the mail.

"These mailmen don't know what they're doing," she was saying, to no one in particular. "We never get the mail until so late." She noticed Jeb in his slump. "That's something YOU could have fixed. Pff. I guess not."

Jeb didn't move.

"Hey! What's wrong with you! Have you been doing that marijuana stuff again? You know that hurts our image. Come on." She lightly assaulted the top of his head with her bundle of mail. "Get up. Go do something useful."

As she toddled away, Jeb struggled to his feet. He couldn't just sit there forever. He had to – he had to…

He walked to the kitchen. George Jr. was standing by the sink, eating leftover noodles. Jeb went over to the freezer and began rummaging around purposefully. After about a minute of this, he popped his head up again. He was distressed.

"Do we not have any ice cream?"

"What? No," George scoffed.

He deserved this. This is what he got for cheating on Columba. Jeb took a deep breath, closed the freezer, and bolted to his room. Once inside the sanctuary of his own space, he curled up on the floor and began to cry.


End file.
